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The silence surrounds me. This silence stills my movements. My hips do not dance in this chamber of echoes.

I begin to mumble, to stutter, to pause. My mind wanders to another place, not here, a place where your words spill onto me. A place where your hand traces my lines, where mine return the favour, an oft traveled pathway, my finger traces your forearm, your shoulder, the bend of your neck, the line of your nose.

I pull myself back.

This love affair is lonely. We are bodies uniting in stilted moments. We are gorgeous grindings. We are glorious staccato breaths, arched backs pressing into three fingers, my mind imagines tomorrows sunrise- the waking, to You.

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I am heartache and heartbeats and heartfelt.

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

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“Incessant talk runs into serious trouble. It can’t honor things, because there’s no “sacred space” for them (to quote someone with whom I spoke recently). There’s no sense of a time for quieting down and listening. Thus, there’s little room for taking anything serious in. Instead, people vie to be heard—but no one’s listening anyway, so no one gets heard. This is an exaggerated representation, of course, but it’s largely accurate.

The problem is not just that people talk, talk, and talk. (Nor is it a problem of extroverts versus introverts, as many who qualify as introverts have a great propensity for chatter.) It’s that there’s so much rush, so much overload of work and information, that people don’t even have a chance to ruminate, to sift through experiences, to read books for pleasure and interest, or to test out ideas.”- Diana Senechal

She’s comfortable in the silence; strolling through her own thoughts; being.